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We must endure our thoughts all night, until the bright obvious stands motionless in the cold.

Wallace Stevens

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Wallace Stevens
Age: 75 †
Born: 1879
Born: October 2
Died: 1955
Died: August 2
Journalist
Lawyer
Playwright
Poet
Poet Lawyer
Writer
Dying
Thoughts
Cold
Motionless
Death
Impermanence
Night
Bright
Must
Stands
Endure
Obvious

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Make the visible a little hard to see.
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Cold is our element and winter's air Brings voices as of lions coming down.
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In the same way, you were happy in spring, With the half colors of quarter-things, The slightly brighter sky, the melting clouds, The single bird, the obscure moon- The obscure moon lighting an obscure world Of thing that would never be quite expressed, Where you yourself were never quite yourself And did not want nor have to be.
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If some really acute observer made as much of egotism as Freud has made of sex, people would forget a good deal about sex and find the explanation for everything in egotism.
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It is the belief and not the god that counts.
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At the sight of blackbirds Flying in a green light, Even the bawds of euphony Would cry out sharply.
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Life is the elimination of what is dead.
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The mind is smaller than the eye.
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If the hero is not a person, the emblem Of him, even if Xenophon, seems To stand taller than a person stands, has A wider brow, large and less human Eyes and bruted ears: the man-like body Of a primitive.
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What is there in life except one's ideas, Good air, good friend, what is there in life?
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How full of trifles everything is! It is only one's thoughts that fill a room with something more than furniture.
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People ought to like poetry the way a child likes snow & they would if poets wrote it.
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Beneath every no lays a passion for yes that had never been broken.
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It must be this rhapsody or none, The rhapsody of things as they are.
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It has to be living, to learn the speech of the place, It has to face the man of the time.
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My tribute to mystical, magical trees that the Cherokee called standing people. . . .
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It is time that beats in the breast and it is time That batters against the mind, silent and proud, The mind that knows it is destroyed by time.
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...after a night spent writing poetry, one is almost happy to hear the milkman at the door.
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Just as my fingers on these keys make music, so the self-same sounds on my spirit make a music too.
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The point of vision and desire are the same.
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